by Hannah Tinti
She took a breath. She let half of it out. She waited. And waited. And then she remembered the whale’s heart. The one made of red and pink molded plastic that she had climbed into at the museum long ago. Each chamber had been a separate room where Loo had felt safe and protected, the aorta a tunnel leading to a whole new world. How small everything else must seem, she thought, when your heart is big enough for someone else to crawl through. She put her hand on her own chest. Felt the life inside her pushing back against her own skin.
“Dad,” she said. She needed to tell Hawley about this. She needed him to know.
And then all at once the whale’s open mouth pushed through the waves, its rostrum crusted with barnacles, the figurehead of a lost and forgotten shipwreck returning from the sunken depths. Loo could see the baleen lining the inner edge of its jaw, like the comb on Mabel Ridge’s giant loom. The whale turned and there was its eye, black and shining beneath heavy folds of skin, set above the jagged grooves of its thick, expansive throat. She could not tell if the whale was looking at her. She could not tell if it was thinking anything at all. The creature rolled sideways, a rotating school bus, and lifted its pectoral fin high in the air and then it spun easily and dove, showing the full running slick of its long back, until there was only the fluke rising, the tail’s ragged edge flecked with white, bending and scraping the surface of the heavens and then plunging deep, until all that was left was a rippling circle, that widened as it reached the Pandora.
The seagulls moved off, heading north. Loo pulled tight on the mainsheet. She set a course and followed the birds and the whale. A hundred yards ahead she saw the spout dimly against the stars. On the next surfacing Loo could hear only the blow. The tight noise of air released.
On the opposite bench, Hawley’s cigarette had gone out. Loo scrambled over and pressed her ear to his chest, felt his throat with her fingers. His heart was still there. Still beating. Loo’s face and hands came away wet with blood.
She leaned over the side of the boat. She touched her palm to the surface of the ocean. There were tiny things shimmering there in the water. Phosphorescence stirred up from the depths by the whale. Dinoflagellates and phytoplankton sending out an ethereal, muted green pulse that mixed with the reflection of the stars above, all the heroes and legends in the sky. The light was strong enough to cut a path through the swells. Bright enough for Loo to watch the blood leaving her skin. She lifted her head and saw a string of beacons, blinking in the distance. There was a boat. And then another. And then another.
“We’re here,” said Loo. “We made it.”
She grabbed the flare. The plastic piece felt flimsy and light, even after she jammed in the cartridge. The gun was like a toy in her hands. A weapon transformed into a thing of wonder. She climbed onto the bow of the boat. She clung to the mainstay. She tried to get as high as she could, to set her sights in the right direction.
Her father’s voice came out of the darkness.
He asked her, “What you are going to shoot?”
“Everything,” said Loo. And she raised her arm and pulled the trigger.
For Helen Ellis and Ann Napolitano, great writers and true friends
And for Canada, for walking me through the dark
Acknowledgments
THE JOURNEY TO THIS BOOK was a long one and I have many people to thank. My parents, Hester and William Tinti, who continue to inspire me with their steadfast support and love. My sisters, Hester and Honorah, for always having my back and bringing Owen, Phelan, Isabelle and Geno into my life. Helen Ellis and Ann Napolitano for keeping the faith. My One Story family: Maribeth Batcha, Devin Emke, Patrick Ryan, Will Allison, Karen Friedman, Adina Talve-Goodman, Amanda Faraone, Lena Valencia, and all of our supporters, volunteers and authors. The amazing Dani Shapiro, Michael Maren, Antonio Sersale, Carla Sersale, Jacob Maren, Jim Shepard, Karen Shepard, Sirenlanders past and present and our dearly departed Franco. My New York Family: Yuka, Kareem, Maya and Saya. Kate Gray, for oceans and oceans. Ruth Ozeki, Ann Patchett, Richard Russo, Karen Russell and Meg Wolitzer for their generous words. Deborah Landau and all the staff and students at NYU’s Creative Writing Program. Ruth Cohen and the American Museum of Natural History for letting me crawl inside the whale’s heart. Rahna Reiko Rizzuto, Dan Chaon, Willy Vlautin, Josh Wolf Shenk, Leigh Newman, Anna Solomon, and all the folks in the Poker Gang, for their early reads, friendship and advice. Joe Lewis and Matthew Cheney for sharing their gun expertise. Brooklyn Creative League, The Center for Fiction, the Ellen Levine Fund for Writers, The New York Community Trust, the Civitella Ranieri Foundation, Aspen Words, Catto Shaw Foundation and Hedgebrook for providing shelter in a storm of doubt. The Borg and the Erratics, who showed me how to draw my boundaries. Lynda Barry for One! Hundred! Demons! E. L. Doctorow for singing “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Nina Collart for the beach in winter. Amy O’Neill Houck and James Houck for Alaska. Tin House, for taking a chance on “Bullet #2,” and Otto Penzler and Lisa Scottoline for Best American Mystery Stories. A big, giant, round of drinks for the brilliant visionary Susan Kamil, the mighty editor Noah Eaker, and everyone at The Dial Press who wove a red carpet for this novel with their bare hands: Gina Centrello, Sally Marvin, Maria Braeckel, Theresa Zoro, Susan Corcoran, Jessica Bonet, Leigh Marchant, Avideh Bashirrad, Emma Caruso, Dhara Parikh, Allyson Lord, Kelly Chian, Benjamin Dreyer, Caitlin McCaskey, Anastasia Whalen, Michael Kindness, David Underwood, Ruth Liebmann, Sherry Virtz, Ron Shoop, Michele Sulka and so many more—you are a constellation of excellence. The Marsh Agency, Abner Stein Agency, Caspian Dennis, Jill Gillett and Geoffrey Sanford for introducing Hawley and Loo to the rest of the world. And finally, one thousand loaves of gingerbread for Aragi, Inc., an agency that feels like a home, a team of writers and artists who resemble blood relatives, Duvall Osteen, who keeps us all in line, and Nicole Aragi, my tea-drinking warrior, who never stopped believing I would find the words.
BY HANNAH TINTI
The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley
The Good Thief
Animal Crackers
About the Author
HANNAH TINTI grew up in Salem, Massachusetts. Her short story collection Animal Crackers was a runner-up for the PEN/Hemingway Award. Her bestselling novel The Good Thief won the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and an American Library Association Alex Award, and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. Tinti is the co-founder and executive editor of the award-winning literary magazine One Story.
hannahtinti.com
Facebook.com/Hannah.Tinti
@hannahtinti
To inquire about booking Hannah Tinti for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at [email protected].
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